Bron-51

Continued from Chapter 50: Bron-50 | ABCtales

The footpath disappeared at the edge of the spinney; there was no obvious way up. Grace pointed with her right boot towards the opposite edge. “Got to be there, surely. Must be the general direction.” The wind rushed through the branches above, almost a crackle. Bron grunted.

They’d spotted the huge Bray Cross, rearing up from the clifftop when they’d stepped off the train from Dublin, a relic of Ireland’s Holy Year in 1950. It was Grace who’d insisted on making the climb.

“Glad you came?”

“Glad I came here? S’OK, I s’pose…”

“No! I mean, glad we chose Dublin for our honeymoon? Obvious choice, if you’re already at Holyhead.”

“Yeah! It’s great! Never been before. I like all the bridges, especially that..Penny Bridge, was it?”

“Halfpenny Bridge…”

“And that river. What do they call it? The one you fell into after we’d been to the pub?”

“The Liffey.”

“You don’t mind going to all these pubs if you’re not drinking?”

“No! One of us has to stay sober. And it ain’t going to be you.”

“It ain’t going to be me. I’ll take you out for a slap-up meal before we leave.”

“Deal. “Don’t think that barman was very happy when you told him the Guinness from Park Royal was better than the Dublin stuff.”

“Would have had better luck arguing against the Virgin Birth.”

“Better not go there again.”

“Pity. Best pub in Dublin, I thought. What was it, again? The Long, Long something?”

“Long Hall, I think.”

“What shall we do tomorrow?”

“Let’s see if we survive today.”

“You know, coming to Dublin is strange, in a way. You go all the way to Holyhead, which you think of as the back of beyond…”

“Thank you.”

“It seems miles from everywhere. You think: There’s nothing now except the ocean. And then you get on a ferry for a couple of hours, and suddenly, you’re in this big bustling city, with bars, and nightclubs, and night buses. It’s like the secret wardrobe. You know, in Narnia…”

 

Now they were out on an open stretch; the path up appeared again. The Irish Sea wind ballooned their jackets. Walking against it was an effort in itself. Now, the cliff-edge seemed uncomfortably close.

“Ah! The very Divil himself is in this wind!”

They jumped. They hadn’t notice the wee fella emerge from behind a boulder where he must have been taking shelter, or possibly relieving himself. Curly black hair, greying at the temples, elfin face.

“It’s the Divil. He’s testing us. He does not want us to attain the state of grace to be found on the hill of the Holy Cross of Bray!”

“Yeah…if you say so.”

They fell into step along the narrow path.”

“So what brings you to Bray, ladies? The cross, I presume?”

“No, not really. We’re staying in Dublin, thought we’d have a little trip out on the train. Didn’t even know it was here, till we saw it.”

“It was her idea we trek all the way to the top,” Bron supplied.

“We’re on honeymoon. That’s why we’re in Dublin.”

“Honeymoon? What, the boths of you, at the same time? Where are your husbands?”

“Nowhere. We’re husband and wife. We’re married to each other.”

“Jaysus! Go way!”

“So, you’re actually married, then? By a priest? In a church?”

“Not officially. But we got a vicar to carry out a service, in a field. It was very romantic,” said Grace.

The man said nothing for a moment. Then: “But will yous stay like that? Two women together? What if one of yous wants to have children? The old maternal instinct?”

“Who God has brought together, let no man put asunder, I think it says in the marriage service.”

“Sure, but that’s for men and women, not your lesbian rumpty-tumpty, surely?”

“We’re going to adopt a child.”  Bron drew back her head, then nodded emphatically.

“Are we? News to me, Bron.”

“Got something to tell you. Later.”

“Oh. Right.”

 

They continued, the chap momentarily silenced.

“So, is this a penance? For your sins?”

“What sins?”

“For your unnatural acts. For your overturning of the natural order of things. For…”

“No. We just fancied the view.”

 

“By the way. As you’re two ladies, how exactly do you…”

“Everyone asks that,” groaned Grace.

 

 

They finally reached the top. The chap didn’t stay long, perhaps fearing contamination from the ungodly. He muttered something and disappeared back down the path. Hand in hand, Grace and Bron walked around the white concrete base of the cross, bracing themselves from the onslaught of the wind as they emerged from its shelter into the full onslaught from the sea.

“If that guy had hung around, we could have given him a demonstration.”

“Too cold for that,” said Bron, briskly.

“Well, anyway we’re away from prying humanity up here. You know, I’m not really religious, as you know, but there IS something spiritual about this. The cross, soaring up off the cliffs, the sea raging below, the sun just coming through that chink in the clouds. There’s something very…very defiant about it. This is what we believe.”

“Sean O’Connell fucks his cousin.”

“Pardon?”

“Someone’s written it, there, on the concrete. In black felt tip.”

“Oh, trust you, Bron…”

 

 

Bron stood up and inched carefully towards the cliff edge.

“Careful!” called Grace. “It’s blowing a hurricane!” The wind carried most of her words away. Bron took another careful step. Then a burst - almost a crack - of wind, and there was only thin air underneath her boots.

“BRON!” screamed Grace.

To be continued in Chapter 52